


#18: All Guns Are Loaded

by Knitwritezombie (Missa_G)



Series: 100 Rules for Adults (That Clint Barton Never Learned) [18]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: BAMF Clint Barton, M/M, dumb bad guys, robbery-interuptus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2018-02-21 03:37:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2453273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missa_G/pseuds/Knitwritezombie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint interrupts a robbery. Because of course he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	#18: All Guns Are Loaded

It was just his fucking luck. 

Strike Team Delta had returned from a three-week mission earlier in the day. Exhausted, bruised, battered, and hungry, they’d been trapped in HQ until early afternoon in debriefing before they’d finally been released on the three days leave. Clint and Phil had ended up at Clint’s place, since there was a greater chance of finding something edible in his pantry or freezer (they’d made short work of the lasagna Clint had made and frozen during his last cooking binge), ate, and fell into bed, both of them nearly asleep before their heads hit the pillow.

Clint woke up after only a couple of hours and found himself restless and unable to get back to sleep. Not wanting to wake Phil with tossing and turning, he slipped out of bed, into his jeans and a hoodie, and headed down to the corner store; he figured he could pick up milk, bread, and eggs for breakfast, and stock up on condoms and lube for the next couple of days (he had hopes, okay).

And of course it was just his luck that as he was checking dates on the quarts of milk, a couple of assholes in balaclavas carrying handguns burst into the small store and demanded the contents of the safe and cash register from the terrified clerk.

Clint was unarmed, but not helpless. He set his basket quietly on the floor, hoping the clerk would just hand over the money and the guys (based on their build and movement) would leave happily without hurting anyone, and Clint could go home without having to engage in an ass-kicking that would lead to paperwork on his hard-earned time off.

“Open the safe!” bad guy 1 demanded.

“I c-cant,” the clerk, a weedy looking guy in skinny jeans and black plastic glasses, stammered. He’d been working on a red bull and a calculus book when Clint had come in. “The boss took the deposit in already. Even if I could open it, there’s no money.   
That’s all there is,” he said, nudging the contents of the register in the bad guy’s direction.

“Give us your phone,” the other guy barked. “And your wallet. Anyone else in here?”

The clerk glanced in Clint’s direction. “No,” he said bravely, but the bad guys caught his glance. Bad guy 1 waved his gun in Clint’s direction. “Go check,” he ordered his partner. 

Well, fuck, Clint thought. So much for that plan. He hadn’t even brought his phone with him (he’d scribbled a note for Phil in case he woke up). He stood casually, arms at his side as bad-guy 2 approached. The safety was still on the guy’s gun. Well, that was something, at least.

“Hey, look, man, I don’t want any trouble,” Clint said. He held out the folded bills. “Here. It’s all I got.”

The idiot got close enough to snatch the bills from Clint’s hand. 

Clint hit the guy in the solar plexus and snatched his gun, stripping it down and tossing the pieces away before the guy hit the floor, gasping for air. 

“Hey!” Bad-guy 1 called. “What’s going on?”

“Something’s wrong with your friend,” Clint said, putting a note of fear in his voice. Hopefully the clerk was smart enough to call the cops while Clint had bad-guy 1’s attention. “I don’t think he’s breathing.”

“Shit, Jimmy, you bring your inhaler?” bad-guy 1 said, coming around the corner, his gun lowered. 

Clint rolled his eyes. Seriously?

Bad-guy 2, Jimmy, apparently, was struggling for breath but he shook his head. 

Clint kept his non-threatening stance as bad-guy 1 approached his friend, kneeling. Mentally apologizing, he kneed the guy on the chin, and he topped over backwards, unconscious, his head smacking the floor. Clint grabbed up his gun, still with the safety on, and repeated the familiar action of breaking it down. Both clips had been light; he would have been surprised if they’d had more than 3 or 4 shots each.

Picking up his basket, he approached the counter, where, yes, the clerk was on the phone to the cops. In the distance, Clint heard sirens.

An hour later, after giving his report and calling someone at SHIELD to verify his identity for the cops since he hadn’t brought an ID, Clint was headed home with his purchases, ready sleep again with the adrenaline high worn off.


End file.
